


The Tattooed Man

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post series. Angel receives a postcard with a plea for help; Spike goes to investigate. From my July nekid numbers prompts of Lindsey, postcard, carnival, and exhbitionism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tattooed Man

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[spike/lindsey](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/lindsey), [tattooed man](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/tattooed%20man)  
  
  
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**Title: **The Tattooed Man  
**Pairing:** Spike/Lindsey  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not Joss  
**Summary:** Set post series. Angel receives a postcard with a plea for help; Spike goes to investigate. From my July nekid numbers prompts of Lindsey, postcard, carnival, and exhbitionism.  
**A/N:**  Huge thanks to [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/)  for being a wonderful beta, and to [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/)  for the awesome banner!

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**The Tattooed Man (1/1)**   
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The Tattooed Man  
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The smells alone were nearly enough to rock him back on his feet. Deep-fried batter. Sticky-sweet candyfloss. Spilled cola. Trodden grass and hot greasy metal and horseshit. And then there were the sounds: the shrieking and the laughing, the crying from young children up too late, the calling of the barkers and the blaring, clashing music from the rides. He never had fancied carnivals much, although Dru had loved them for the twinkling lights and the air of barely suppressed chaos. She used to drag him through them by the hand, insisting that he win cheap baubles for her at the games, screaming with delight atop the Ferris wheel. And he had to admit, the hunting was always good: kiddies who’d wandered from their parents’ eyes, gormless teenagers easily lured into a dark corner, carnies nobody would miss.

Of course, his hunting days were past. That sort of hunting, in any case. And Dru was long gone, dusted or simply haunting another continent—he didn’t know and didn’t want to.

But here he was again, threading his way through all the bloody humans, running another of his grandsire’s bloody errands. He might have thought the pouf would at least take a rest for a time. Angel had defeated the lawyers, he’d earned his sodding humanity, he’d reconciled with the Slayer, who was even now likely shagging him senseless. But no. He still had to continue his endless crusades, and when he couldn’t manage it himself because of being on a stupid bloody honeymoon, he’d send his proxy. The world’s final souled vampire.

Spike scowled and leaned back against the low fence near the Himalaya ride and pulled the postcard from his duster pocket. The front of it featured a photo of a carousel and was imprinted with the words, “Walker &amp; Sons Traveling Show.” The back side was addressed to Angel. In a barely-legible scrawl, someone had written a single sentence: “Help me.” The card was postmarked Scottsbluff, Nebraska, but by the time it had been delivered to the Hyperion and Angel had tracked down the carnival, the show had made its way considerably farther west, so that Spike had had to drive only a bit over the Oregon border, to Medford.

It would have been nice if the card had been a bit more specific. Who was he meant to help, and how? Spike was momentarily distracted by a pair of blondes wearing tiny shorts and bikini tops. They gave him a long look as they passed by, and one of them licked lasciviously at the ice cream she held in one hand. He sighed. He didn’t expect she was the one needing assistance. More’s the pity.

He decided that staying where he was would leave him with nothing but a useless hard-on and a pair of blue balls. So he gave the girls a leer and wandered deeper into the back end of the lot. The biggest rides were there, the coaster and the Zipper, the Tilt-a-Whirl and the Cyclone and the Power Surge. But the only help the people in this area seemed to need was someone to pat their hand while they tried not to vomit up their chili cheese nachos and deep-fried Twinkies, so he moved on, restlessly wandering among the crowds.

And then he saw the slightly darker and considerably less-well-traveled path that led to the sideshows. There weren’t many of the brightly painted tents, but then, Spike was surprised to see any at all. He’d reckoned that sideshows were a relic of the past.

He was even more surprised—although perhaps he ought not to have been—when he saw that the exhibits here tended toward the dark side. The lurid signs advertised a geek and a human pincushion, the human blockhead and a glass-eater, The Ossified Man and Francisco the Hunger Artist. There was even a tent full of Pickled Punks, which he would have thought no longer politically correct. The scent of demons was strong here, and Spike was certain that some of the sideshow performers were not human. Not that he objected. If a Sademecki wanted to earn a few quid as the Alligator Girl, or if a Chai-Hstor wanted to pass itself off as a bloke with a parasitic twin, that didn’t harm anyone. Gave the demons an honest living, more or less, and the marks walked away satisfied they’d got their money’s worth.

At the very end of the row, where the light was dim even to Spike’s eyes, a single tent stood slightly apart from the others. The painting that hung on it depicted the back of a man whose head was turned slightly to the side, so a bit of his profile showed. He was heavily muscled and his skin was almost entirely covered in intricate, inked swirls and flourishes and symbols. A thin strip of white cloth was draped across his arse, covering very little and promising much. “SEE THE TATTOOED MAN IN ALL HIS GLORY,” the sign trumpeted. “HE WILL SHOW YOU THE MYSTICAL SYMBOLS OF THE FAR EAST.”

“See somethin’ ya like?” said a voice, and Spike turned his head to look. A man was sitting behind a small podium outside the tent. He was thin and dirty-looking, his grayish hair hanging in greasy clumps, his skin sallow and blemished under the light that hung above him.

Spike took a few steps closer to the man. “Not much of a bally there, mate.”

The man smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “Well, you ain’t much of a tip. Besides, the regular talker’s off bangin’ some chick. I’m a ride jock, most of the time. So, ya gonna pay up?”

Spike considered. “You got anything in there worth paying for?”

The man waggled his mangy-looking eyebrows. “Come on in and have a look. You can have a private show. Twenty bucks.”

“Twenty? That’s a bit much, innit?”

“Oh, he’s worth it. And I’ll tell you what, since it’s a slow night. You like what you see, and for another twenty I’ll let you touch, too.”

Spike had to think about it a moment. He had the dosh. He had to admit that about Peaches—the old man always kept Spike’s pockets full. Perhaps he thought that's what kept Spike hanging about. It wasn’t. The truth was, Spike had no idea where else to go. He’d never admit that, though.

But back to the matter at hand. Spike was on a mission, and although whatever was in this tent might very well have nothing to do with the postcard, something felt a bit…off. He might as well check it out, in any case. Hell, if the star of the sideshow was half decent, perhaps Spike would take the man up on his offer and have a quick go with the tattooed man. It had been ages since he’d got his end away, even longer since he’d shagged a bloke.

Spike dug in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. The man’s eyes grew sharp and interested as Spike peeled off a twenty and slapped it down on the podium. “Twenty now. The rest, we’ll see.”

“A man who’s careful with his dough. I can admire that,” the man said, smiling and snatching the money away. “Go on in and have a seat. Show’ll start in a sec.”

Spike ducked through the tent flap. The inside of the structure smelled of mildew and dust and sweat and spunk. There was a small, bare stage at the opposite end, the splintery-looking wood set two steps above the ground. The back of the stage was hung with limp red curtains. Two can lights were set into the front of the stage, and a pair of bare bulbs hung overhead, so that the stage was quite bright. The bit where Spike stood, though, was dark, with a dozen or so metal folding chairs scattered haphazardly about the small space. Spike looked around and then sat in the seat farthest from the stage, where he’d be nearly invisible to the performer, especially with those lamps shining in the bloke’s face.

For a few moments, nothing much happened. Spike took out his lighter and a packet of cigarettes, shook out a fag, and lit it up. He put the packet and lighter back in his pocket.

From behind the curtain came a bit of quiet rustling and the dull clank of metal. Music began, the lyrics something about riding a pony that made Spike snort softly. More small sounds and the back curtains shook a bit. Then they parted, and a man shuffled onto the stage.

He was wearing a bathrobe of the sort found in hotels, just plain terry cloth that had once been white but was now slightly gray. It was simply draped over his shoulders. None of his skin showed except his shins and ankles and feet, all of which were covered in red and black squiggles and sigils. He had his head deeply bowed so that his dark fringe completely hid his face. Heavy manacles were fastened about his ankles and wrists; thick chains trailed from them to the backstage area. He had a wide metal collar around his neck as well, and, although it had a D-ring affixed to it, it was not attached to a chain.

The volume of the music turned up. The man shrugged his shoulders so that the robe fell to his feet in a puddle. He might once have been as muscular as the sign on the tent depicted, but now he was too thin, the colorful designs stretched over jutting bones. The markings were marred slightly by several small, round scars on his chest and belly. His cock was half-hard, jutting a bit from his shaved pubis. Even his dick was tattooed with vines bearing green leaves and black thorns.

 He took a step forward so that the fabric wouldn’t tangle around his feet. Without looking up, he wrapped a hand around his cock and began to stroke, swaying his hips slightly in time to the music. Slowly, he turned. Spike noticed the man took care not to trip on his chains. His backside was as decorated as his front, with symbols scrawled across his broad shoulders and down his spine, the globes of his arse sporting script in Cyrillic and Arabic and Greek, as well as a few alphabets Spike couldn’t recognize. The backs of his legs bore snarling beasts and smiling devil-women. There was a vampire on his right calf, fangs bared, eyes golden.

After a few moments, during which the tattooed man continued to swing his arse, Spike adjusted himself slightly as his trousers began to feel uncomfortably tight.

The man turned back toward Spike again. He still had his head down, and Spike wondered if his face was marked as well. Then the man lifted his head, very slowly, and Spike gasped, then swore quietly as he dropped his cigarette to the ground.

Lindsey McDonald.

Lindsey’s blue eyes were glassy and unfocused and his face was nearly expressionless, as if he were somewhere far away, not even aware of his continued wanking. He gave no sign at all that he could see Spike. He simply continued to move, now widening his stance a bit and rolling his pelvis forward and back.

Spike knew what Angel had ordered Lorne to do to the lawyer, and he knew that Lorne had done it. Using Lorne that way was something Spike could never forgive his grandsire for, but then there were so many things in that category that one more made little difference. As for Lindsey’s death itself, Spike had had mixed feelings. On the one hand, the man had seduced and lied to him, used him as a pawn in his stupid plot to get revenge on Angel. And even when Lindsey had fought on their side there at the end, Spike hadn’t trusted the bloke. But still, Spike had believed that it was possible Lindsey had truly reformed, had been at least on the path to redemption, and Spike was hardly one to stand in the way of someone attempting that. He’d also been angry at the callous way Angel killed his allies—or at least sent them to their deaths—all in the name of his bloody great cause. Wes had been all right, for a Watcher, and Drogyn had seemed a good enough bloke, and Gunn had been brave and strong. On his worst days, Spike even mourned Illyria, a bit.

And now it seemed as if Lindsey had survived his assassination. Again, perhaps Spike shouldn’t have been surprised. He knew some of the Wolfram &amp; Hart minions had made post-mortem appearances. And he personally knew quite a few people who’d failed at dying, some repeatedly, himself included.

Up on the stage, what appeared to be a very-much-living Lindsey grunted softly and sped his movements. Every time his hand moved to the base of his cock, Spike could see the glans glistening in the stage lights, red and inflamed-looking. Lindsey’s bollocks—which were, perhaps mercifully, not tattooed—had drawn up a bit.

The song ended, but a new one began immediately. Spike recognized this one: “Closer,” by Nine Inch Nails.

 Lindsey collapsed to his knees, still rubbing his cock. His eyes were closed now, and Spike watched as beads of sweat gathered on his brow and ran down his face. They would taste like tears, not so very different than blood.

With another groan, a louder one this time, Lindsey climaxed, his come splattering onto the stage in front of him and smearing onto his hand. He jerked a few more times, then dropped his hand. He let his head fall again, too, and then he just remained like that, shoulders bowed, still as a statue if it weren’t for the rapid in and out of his chest.

The music stopped.

A few seconds later, the thin man appeared from behind the stage. He walked around Lindsey, stepping carefully over the chains, and hopped down to the ground. “Well?” he said as he approached Spike. “What did I say? He puts on quite a show, don’t he?”

Spike nodded mutely, uncertain what words would come out if he allowed himself to speak.

“So? Gonna pony up another twenty? You do and I’ll give you thirty minutes with him, all to yourself. You can do with him whatever you want, long as you don’t damage him none. Or mess up the tats.”

Spike cleared his throat. “Is he willing?”

The man barked out a hacking laugh. “Oh, he’s obedient enough, if that’s what you mean. He’s learned how to be a very good boy.”

“But the chains….”

In a lower voice, as if he were speaking confidentially, the man said, “He belongs to my boss. He ain’t….” The man looked around quickly, and then in a near whisper, said, “He ain’t exactly human, really.” And then, much louder, “But that don’t mean you can’t use him like a real human. Twenty bucks. A bargain at twice the price.”

Spike’s jaw worked. But he reached into his pocket and pulled out his money again, and handed another bill to the carnie. The carnie grinned, his fetid breath puffing out toward Spike, and stuffed the twenty in his own jeans. “Half an hour,” he said, and then exited through the tent flap.

Lindsey didn’t move as the man left. Spike approached him slowly, and as he stepped up onto the stage, he realized the man was dirty. He reeked of sweat and spunk—his own and others’. There was also the odd, chemical odor of drugs of some sort. The skin around the manacles and collar was red and irritated, and in general, he projected an aura of weariness and desolation.

“Cowboy,” Spike said softly. Lindsey didn’t react at all, not so much as twitching a muscle. So Spike tried again. “Lindsey.”

At that, the man’s head snapped up. His eyes widened when he saw Spike, his mouth fell open, and his entire body shook. He would have fallen over if Spike hadn’t dropped to his knees beside him and grasped his upper arms. “You in there?” Spike asked.

Lindsey blinked furiously, as if he were trying to clear his vision. “S-Spike?” he finally stuttered. His voice was thin and raspy, disused-sounding.

“What happened to you? How are you here?”

Lindsey closed his eyes and shuddered. “Partners owned me. Contract didn’t end at death.”

“But we beat those wankers!”

Lindsey made a sound that might have been meant to be a laugh. “Not quick enough. Not before they sold me.”

“You sent the postcard.”

“Wasn’t sure it even got sent. I traded someone for the favor, but….”

Spike had a fairly good idea of what the man had traded. “Why Angel? He’s the one who had you murdered.”

Spike had never seen a face so full of despair. “Ain’t no one else.”

Captain Forehead as his only hope. Fuck. Spike let go of Lindsey and stood. As he began to step away, though, Lindsey lurched clumsily to his feet, chains rattling. He shot out a hand to grab Spike, but the chains weren’t quite long enough to reach. “Don’t leave me here. God, please don’t. I’ll…anything you want, Spike. Please!” The last word was a wail as Spike leapt off the little stage.

As he made his way across the tent, he heard a thud and clatter behind him, no doubt as Lindsey collapsed. Spike didn’t turn back. He strode to the exit and then outside, where the carnie was back behind his little podium, smoking a cigarette and leafing through a magazine.

“Finished already?” the man laughed. “Regular Quick Draw McGraw, huh?”

Spike snarled and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. As the carnie let out a startled squawk, Spike dragged him into the tent. The man thrashed his arms and tried to struggle, but Spike was much stronger, and there was nothing for the man to grab except the tent flap, which actually tore a bit under his desperate grip.

Spike threw the man down onto the floor, where he yelped as he bounced against a chair, knocking it over. “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’ll—”

Spike vamped out, then bent down and hauled the carnie to his feet. “The keys. Give me the keys.”

“Wha-wha-what keys?” The man’s eyes were bugging out grotesquely, like a cartoon.

“The keys to the bloody chains, berk! Hand them over or I’ll shake them out of you myself.”

“I-I-I ain’t got them!”

Spike yanked him closer until they were nearly face-to-face, giving him a nice close-up of Spike’s fangs. “Who does?” Spike growled.

“The boss!”

Spike pulled his lips back in a parody of a smile. “Well, then. You’d best ring him over. I’m not known for my patience.”

The carnie made a sort of _eep_ sound. He dug desperately in his pocket, pulled out a mobile phone, and fumbled it onto the ground. He picked it up, dropped it again, then finally managed to keep hold of it long enough to punch some buttons. After a moment, he said into the receiver, “Yeah, I know, I know, but I need you here right away.” A brief pause, no doubt as his boss asked why. The man started to answer, “There’s a v—“ But Spike snatched the mobile away, dropped it, and ground it to bits under his boot heel.

Spike took a quick look around the tent. A length of yellow extension cord was piled in one corner. He pushed the man to the corner, shoved him down into a chair, and used the cord to tie him to the seat. It might not hold for long, but Spike hoped he wouldn’t be there too much longer.

He glanced up at the stage. Lindsey was on all fours, staring wildly. He looked as if he were too confused to hope. “Steady, cowboy,” Spike said.

Spike stuck close to the bound carnie. He didn’t know whether the boss would be bringing helpers with him, and a hostage near at hand might prove useful. But the bloke who came bursting into the tent a few moments later was all alone.

The boss was a short, bald man in his fifties, and very round. He wore a pair of gray trousers, a checked shirt, and a bolo tie. He was huffing and puffing angrily as he stormed into the tent. “Keeling! What the fuck—” But his words stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Spike.

“Lovely evening, innit?” Spike grinned.

The boss seemed completely at a loss for words, just opening and shutting his mouth like a dying fish.

“Now, I’m feeling a might peckish. This skinny bloke”—Spike poked Keeling in the neck with one finger, making him _eep_ again—“he’s likely only enough for a bit of a starter. Think I might fancy something a bit richer for the main course.” Spike looked the boss up and down slowly, as if he were trying to decide where to bite.

The boss backed away a step, toward the exit. But Spike took a step closer to him. “I reckon you know you’ll never outrun me, mate. Might give yourself a heart attack if you even try, and then what would be the fun in that? If you want to live to see the sunrise, I suggest you freeze and listen closely.”

The boss wavered visibly for a moment, and then it seemed to occur to him that Spike had offered him an out. His eyes narrowed, growing crafty. “What do you want? Some girls, maybe? I could call for some girls.” He patted a small bulge in his shirt pocket that must have been his mobile. Then he shot a quick glance at Lindsey, still naked on the stage. “Or boys? Maybe some of each.”

Spike jerked his head toward Lindsey. “Unchain him.”

“Unchain him?” The boss had a resonant voice, like a radio announcer. “I’m sure you can get plenty of use out of him as he is. Everyone does. Unless, um, you planned to bite him. I’m afraid the collar’s welded on.”

Spike couldn’t hide a look of disgust. “Unchain him,” he repeated.

The boss looked about the tent as if help would magically materialize. When it didn’t, he pulled a huge ring of keys from his trouser pocket. He heaved himself up the steps, and Spike growled again when Lindsey cowered at the man’s approach. But the boss fumbled with his keys for a moment and then, one by one, unfastened the chains. Lindsey didn’t move as he was gradually freed. He reminded Spike of a beaten dog.

When his task was complete, the boss stood there, looking at Spike expectantly. “All yours. You can use him now.”

Spike loped across the small space and up onto the stage. The boss tried to slink away, but Spike caught him and, on a hunch, dragged him back behind the red curtains. What he found there was a cramped, poorly-lit space that reeked of piss. A metal cage stood open against one canvas wall; the cage was about six feet in each dimension and contained a filthy rag that might once have been a blanket, a rusty bucket that was responsible for the horrible stench, and a large stainless steel dish, of the sort a dog might drink from. The dish was half-full of dirty water.

Spike snatched the keys from the boss’s hand and stuffed them in his own duster pocket. He took the man’s mobile as well. And then, as the man tried to protest, Spike jammed him into the cage and made certain that the lock was engaged. “I ought to rip your throat out. But I’m a white hat nowadays, more or less. Sodding soul keeps me from harming people. Which is more than your own does.” With a final growl, Spike left the man and returned to the front of the tent.

Keeling must have tried to escape; he and the chair now lay on their sides. But he was still securely tied. Spike ignored him and turned to Lindsey, who remained on all fours, exactly as he’d been left. Spike gently urged him to his feet, then bent and retrieved the bathrobe and tugged it over Lindsey’s arms and shoulders, closed the front, and tied the belt. “Reckon that’ll do for now,” he said.

Lindsey simply stared at him. “Spike?”

Spike slung an arm around him and led him slowly across the stage, down the steps, toward the exit. When Lindsey hesitated at the tent flap, Spike pushed him forward a bit. “Come on, cowboy. The Viper’s waiting. If we hurry I expect we can make it to Sacramento before sunrise. We can get a hotel room there; get you a nice, long bath. And food. Don’t know what they’ve been feeding you.”

“But…where….?”

“LA. The Hyperion. You’ll be a bit of a surprise for Peaches when he returns from his honeymoon.” Spike couldn’t help but grin in anticipation of that little scene.

He knew that once Angel learned what had happened here, he’d insist on rushing to the carnival and finding an appropriate way to permanently terrorize the people who ran the place, to make sure they didn’t have any other pets chained up somewhere. That was fine. Angel could bring his bride along. Spike would stay in LA. Now, he felt the thin, warm body pressed against him and saw the way Lindsey’s amazed eyes were focused on him. Saw the look on the man’s face, which might have been a relative of grateful adoration. Might.

Spike smiled and guided Lindsey outside, back toward the raucous midway. Lindsey was a resilient bloke. Given some time and rest and a bit of care he’d be all right. Perhaps it was time Spike had a little holiday himself.

 

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